


The Blood of the Covenant

by Comtesse



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hints of Hannigram but don't get excited, Hurt/Comfort, I should be working, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lawd halp me, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Suicide, Mind Games, Murder, Mutual Pining, Scars/Affection, Slow Burn, Suicide, Tasty tasty murder, tags will update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24787051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comtesse/pseuds/Comtesse
Summary: Sam, a dissociative college friend of Will's and FBI colleague, wakes up on his front porch with no idea how she got there. For ages it seemed she had everything under control, that her days of missing memories were gone. Now, however, things seemed to be falling apart. Will she follow her friend down into madness, or will they help one another before they drown?Side note, if anyone with DID sees something harmful or inaccurate in how I portray it, please let me know so I can fix it. It is not my intention to shed it or any other mental disorder in a negative light.Originally 'Sins of the Father', but that title doesn't fit with where I want this to go. Summary may change as well, since I'm feeling this story out as I go.
Relationships: Will Graham/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. Frozen

**Author's Note:**

> It's 5:09 am and I haven't slept because of this thing. And I have so much more to write. But here you go! I hope you all like it!

The sun had set hours ago, clouds covering the stars and casting the world deep into darkness. Snow blanketed the earth, and seemed to muffle all sounds of life. Everything was silent, still. Except a lone figure trudging through the night. She had been walking for hours, unaware of the world around her. She could not feel the frost biting into her fingers and toes. She could not feel the sting of cold air when she inhaled. She wasn't even quite sure where she was going. Her entire existence was focused on one phrase. One sentence she repeated over and over again, as if it's sound was the only thing keeping her alive.

"My name is Charlotte Samara Summers."

Will awoke with a start to the sound of his dogs going ballistic downstairs. His dogs weren't the type to bark at a falling leaf, or a raccoon looking for scraps of trash. Someone was outside. Alarmed, he grabbed the rifle from his bedside and flew down the stairs. This was not another nightmare, not another fever dream he couldn't seem to escape. He was aware right now, and somehow that made his panic worse.

He waded through the sea of barking fur and turned on the porch light. He had hoped his rescues were enough to scare off the would-be intruder, but he stopped short when he saw a woman sitting on his porch, back turned toward the front door, as if it were her house. The blonde curls and leather jacket were unmistakable. He had known this woman since college, but something was strange. She never showed up without calling first, and she certainly wouldn't have just appeared at - he checked the clock on the wall - two thirty in the morning.

He carefully set the rifle by the door after engaging the safety, then opened the door. "Sam?" he called. He watched for a moment, realizing she was rocking ever-so-slightly back and forth, muttering under her breath. He stepped out into the frigid air, the hairs on his arms standing up with discomfort. "Samara," Will said a little louder this time.

She stopped rocking, looked around, and seemed to come alive. All at once she began to shake with cold, teeth chattering and throat dry. Her body tingled painfully with numbness. Realization dawned on her face. The last thing she remembered was getting a text from her father, someone she hadn't spoken to in nearly ten years. Now, however, she was shaking on a familiar porch with no idea how she got there.

When she looked back at Will, he saw the rawness of her face, streaks of tears and salt frozen to her cheeks. "Did you walk here?" he asked as he stepped closer to her. Even in the wool-lined jacket and thick winter pants, it was very likely she had hypothermia.

Sam rose to her feet as much as she could, hunched with cold, and hobbled toward him. "I don't know," she admitted. This wasn't the first time she had come to Will in a state of duress, but this was by far the most concerning. Work closed at about five, and she said she would be at her father's house by six. What had happened in the last seven hours?

Will wrapped an arm around her shoulders and helped her shuffle inside. If he had a thermometer he would have checked her temperature. Without one, he chose to err on the side of caution. "Come on. Sit in front of the heater, and I'll get you some warm clothes." He didn't comment on her lack of memory. At the moment, he wasn't one to judge. Ever since he got back into the field something had been off. The nightmares were coming back.

Sam sat on the floor, as close as she could get to the heater tucked inside the unused fireplace. The dogs investigated her thoroughly, and had she not felt like she was made of glass, she would have given them the same attention she usually did. Her head was unusually quiet, too. Everything felt too far away, as if nothing was really there, until she reached out to touch it. Thoughts felt like smoke and escaped her grasp too quickly. That was perhaps the most discomforting thing about the situation.

"Here." Will's voice brought her attention back to reality. She rose to her feet and took the offered clothes. "It isn't much, but it's better than wet clothes." He hadn't noticed it before, but her hair looked frozen to her head. As if she had taken a shower and stepped straight out into the snow. "Bathroom is still down the hall. Take a cold shower to slowly thaw yourself out. I'll have something warm for you when you get out."

She nodded and shuffled her way to to the bathroom, though something looked off about her stare. Like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely. What could have happened? He tried to collect the data in his head, to empathize with her the way he did so many times before with serial killers, but came up empty. It was a known fact that Sam had a dissociation issue, but those spells weren't ever deep like the one he found her in. They were light, harmless things. Out there on the porch, sitting in the darkness, there was something else going on. Something that sounded like shock and made his skin crawl with fear that didn't belong to him.

He busied himself with making tea and hastily scrambled eggs. She might not have been hungry, but the dogs would eat what she didn't, and it was just as important to warm her up from the inside as it was the outside. By the time she was finished, the small table was set with a plate and two mugs.

"You look a little better," he commented, relieved. And she did. Her eyes were a little more focused, her fingers steadier as she interacted with the world around her. Thankfully she didn't appear to have frostbite. Being outside for who knew how long in the dead of winter was dangerous. Samara knew that; everyone knew that. What could have happened that would have driven her out into the night and _apparently_ convinced her to walk to his house? Wolf Trap may have been small for a town, but no one lived close enough to take a _leisurely stroll_ to his home.

She smiled sheepishly, casting aside her anxiety over her missing time. "One hell of a way for friends to catch up, huh?" Her laugh was dry, mirthless. Her body ached as heat returned to her limbs. Even the air seemed to be too hot. Hopefully she wouldn't wake up sick.

Will's smile was small, but genuine. "What is there to catch up on? I saw you eight hours ago."

Eight hours ago felt like an eternity, but he was right. They were in Minnesota examining a corpse; she had flown back with the team, and was writing her reports when her father had texted. Not that she knew where her phone was, anymore. It wasn't in her pocket, so she may have left it at the office. "You're right. I just wanted an excuse to see you in your underwear." They both laughed at her joke and tension eased from the air.

"Seriously, you don't remember getting here?"

"Not at all." If he was anyone else, she would have lied. Said her car was broken down and she had nowhere else to go. But Will knew her, knew where she came from, the kind of home that molded her into who she was. She didn't have to lie here.

Will took a sip from his mug, mulling a thought over in his head. "Have you thought about seeing a doctor?"

"Have you?" she shot back, not intending to sound defensive.

He nodded, even though seeing a doctor wasn't really his idea. "I am. He's good. Maybe you should see him?"

Sam regarded him a little more critically now. Will was never fond of psychiatrists before. He had always managed his "condition" on his own. Idly she wondered if it was Jack's doing. He was the one that dragged Will out of the classroom and back into the field, a dangerous place for someone like her friend to be. It's likely this doctor was just a safety net for when Will would eventually get overwhelmed? Sam couldn't be certain. Still, she hadn't lost time like that in ages. Maybe it was better to be safe than sorry.

The woman's stomach growled, and it finally dawned on her that she was hungry. God bless Will for thinking ahead and cooking. After a few bites and enough time to really consider the idea, Samara settled on her decision. "What's his name?"


	2. Idle Threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Nora meet the Good Doctor Lecter. This bodes well for no one.
> 
> Edited to fix some terminology, as I had confused the terms Host and Core. For those that don't know, and if my understanding is correct, the Core personality is the one that was there when the person afflicted was born. A Host is the personality that spends most of the time at the 'front' and controls the body. In Sam's case, the two are interchangeable, but such is not always the case for DID Systems. If my understanding is incorrect, let me know how I can fix this. Thank you!

Sam sat patiently in the waiting room on a surprisingly plush couch. The light grey walls and potted plants didn't help ease the tension gnawing at her insides. Her thoughts felt much more solid than the night before, and she, herself, felt more _real_. Last night seemed more like a dream than anything else, and the fact that she had woken up in someone else's house was the only thing that proved it had really happened. She lost time again, and this time dragged someone else into it. Part of her felt guilty, but most of her was scared. It was terrifying, never knowing when your world would just stop and start again somewhere else entirely.

The door opposite the waiting-couch opened without the barest creak of hinges, and Sam looked up to see a very well polished man standing in the doorway. He wore a perfectly tailored grey suit with a deep charcoal waistcoat, something that probably cost as much as her car, wherever it was. (She had slept in later than intended that morning and didn't have time to stop by her apartment to see if it was there. Will, thankfully, agreed to be her porter for the day.) "Charlotte Summers?" the man inquired with a thick European accent, the exact origins of which she couldn't readily place. Small, mahogany eyes watched her, dissected her, with mild disinterest.

Something coiled in her head like a snake, something that brushed against her consciousness and flickered her sense of reality for a split second. _'I don't like him,'_ she thought to herself, despite not really knowing why.

The young woman rose from her seat and held her hand out to the stranger. "I go by Samara. No one calls me Charlotte."

He gave a small smile and bowed over the offered hand as he held it. His grip was firm, but gentle, as if he was holding a bird. "Samara it is, then. I am Doctor Lecter." He followed her into the room, curious as her what could possibly have been her affliction. She carried herself like her goal was to blend in with the scenery, to be small and unnoticed. Her uniform was too big and smelled like Will's house. If Graham's account of the previous night was accurate, it was possible the uniform was originally his.

Once she had made herself comfortable, that being a loose word for the way she perched on the edge of her seat, limbs crossed in front of her as if to ward him away, he sat across from her and leaned back. He kept his posture open in contrast to hers, relaxed. "Will tells me you had a strange episode last night."

"He told you?" Sam raised a brow. It wasn't hard to imagine. The night before was strange, almost scary. If she had woken up anywhere else, besides maybe her own house, things could have gone much worse.

Lecter nodded. "Of course he did. A colleague showed up at his door in the middle of the night, frozen half to death, and had no recollection of how she got there or what had happened? He was concerned."

She chewed on her lip, looking Lecter in the eyes. His posture was open, inviting, but there was something cold and calculated about his eyes. About how sharp he seemed. As much as she trusted Will's judgement, something was off. Something she felt, but could not dissect and analyze. "It feels like there's someone else in my head. Like I'm being watched sometimes. Other times, I have thoughts that don't feel like mine." As much as her gut told her not to, she allowed the words to fall out of her mouth without filter. He was a doctor, after all. He could possibly have helped her. "And I lose time. Normally just a few minutes here, a half hour there. But last night I lost seven hours. It hasn't happened in a long time, but it's possible it's happening again. And the last time that happened," she paused, a cold shiver going down her spine. She couldn't tell if it was her own fear or something else. Something _knowing_. "People died."

Hannibal raised a brow. That was interesting. Ideas began to form in his head, ways he could push someone like her over the edge. He couldn't settle on one just yet, though. He had to know more before making a choice. "Explain what you mean by that."

"I-" She shuddered, pulling the hazy memories from a time long since locked away in a box. "I don't know, exactly. My mother committed suicide when I was young. Maybe about nine or ten years old? Then there was a car crash a couple years later, I think. They said I was in the car, the only survivor, but I don't really remember it, myself. I was with a friend's family and they-" her breath shook with anxiety. Her pulse drummed in her ears. Sam closed her eyes and swallowed, forcing down a wave on nausea. "They didn't make it. Then there was my brother. He hung himself at sixteen. I was fourteen and had lost half my family."

He watched her as she spoke, analyzing everything from the hitch of her breath to the twitching of her left foot. Her fragility was interesting for a member of the Bureau. Incongruous. "Is it possible you have an alternate personality, Samara?"

"Wouldn't I know if I did?"

"Not necessarily." He stood and wandered to the shelf where his favored tool sat, a metronome that flashed light and could induce quite the dissociative spells. Sometimes seizures, but he would handle that as it came. "I am going to have you stare at this light. Focus on it and block everything else out of your head. We need to find out what happens when you dissociate." His eyes traveled the length of her body, judging her capabilities. Dissociative Identity Disorder was not unfamiliar to him. What type of person was her alter? Did she have potential to be a decent plaything? Was she mold-able? Would she break under too much pressure?

When he turned the little device on, Samara did her best to focus on the white-blue light. She cleared her mind, staring somewhere into the middle distance. It didn't come immediately, not a sudden disappearance of self, but gradually. Her fingertips began to tingle, then her palms, and after roughly a minute the sensation had crawled up to her elbows. As time passed, it gradually became harder and harder to stare at one spot, her eyes wandering here and there, lazily. Almost as if her vision was swimming.

Hannibal was beginning to think she had fallen asleep when Samara's body language flipped on a dime. With a deep gasp, Sam's eyes shot open. She looked around the room alarmed at first, then with interest, green eyes shining with a light that had previously been missing. Her shoulders and hips relaxed, she uncrossed her posture, and took a breath. The air was cool and pleasant, but something felt detached about it. Clinical, even for a doctor's office. "Dr. Lecter, I presume?" the woman purred as she shifted her attention from her surroundings to the man of the hour.

Lecter studied her up and down, soaking in all the information about her that he could. This was definitely the alter, but how much would doubt topple the delicate mental balance she was carrying? He watched as she stood from the seat and seemed to stalk around the perimeter of the room like a haughty cat. She was dismissive of him in that action. Something about that set in Hannibal's jaw the wrong way. "And you would be...?"

She didn't respond until she had completed her circuit, after studying the art he had displayed around the room, taking note of the scalpel he used to sharpen his pencils, eyeing the bookcase up above. She studied everything about this man, and found something in him guilty, familiar. The woman remained standing, choosing to watch Lecter from a more comfortable distance, and was acutely aware that he was _too_ polished. Too perfect. All of the skeletons he kept in a closet were expertly hidden away from the world, but that didn't mean he didn't keep making more. She knew the eyes of a murderer because she had looked into her own. And in his eyes she saw a reflection of herself. Sharpened, perfected, but built from the same clay.

The dead giveaway was the emptiness of his presence. Sure, he had _presence_. He had the bearing of a man that owned every room he ever walked into. There was something missing, though. His smile was without mirth. His motions were all calculated, mechanical. Like he had learned how to _look_ human, but not how to _feel_ human. She had seen it through Sam's eyes before. She watched everything she could, listened to everything Sam heard. And Lecter reminded her of the worst pieces of herself. The pieces she was left with when the exuberance of her crimes faded.

"Nora, for the time being," she acknowledged after entirely too long. "You _wanted_ to talk to me?"

Hannibal nodded. "You seem much more comfortable in that skin than Sam does. I am not entirely sure you are the alter in this situation."

Livid green eyes flashed to his face, virulent intentions barely hidden. She had studied psychiatry and psychology while Sam was in college, read every book on every disorder she could find. Nora spent as much time as she could, without being conspicuous, learning about what she was - what _they_ were - about what it meant and what would happen. Hannibal's words were without standing. There was no way 'being more comfortable in this skin' was a reason to think of Nora as the core personality. "I am not entirely sure you are a competent doctor if that's your diagnosis." She mocked his tone.

The flash of irritation in his gaze made her falter, but it was only that. Just a flash. Gone before most would have noticed it. If the doctor intended to say something when he opened his mouth, Nora cut him off entirely. "I don't like you. I don't like your kind." Her pace was brisk, but measured, as she crossed the distance to him. This was the man Will had put his faith into? The sad-eyed profiler had let his guard down too far if such really was the case. "I can smell it on you, Doctor."

Lecter seemed completely unphased, watching her with mild bemusement. "Are you a naturally violent person, Miss Nora?"

She leaned back, suspicious. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think would happen if I reported to Jack Crawford that he had two agents that were unstable. Will he knows. Will is his mongoose. But what is Samara? What would her use be if she was deemed a threat to herself and others? I would have to report that." His confidence was nauseating. Something sinister was showing between his teeth, in the wrinkles around his eyes.

Nora sat back in her chair reluctantly, the weight of his words pressing down on her shoulders. Of course she didn't want something like that to happen to Sam. The apparition spent her time awake trying to protect Sam. She curled her lip into a snarl and tightened her hands on the chair's arms. "If you do anything to her I'll-"

"I would not finish that sentence if I were you, Miss Nora." He tsked at her, shaking his head. "That would be a very obvious threat, with intent. You do not want that affecting Samara's future." He was going to have to approach this one differently. He could not manipulate her the way he had others. When one was absent, the other would just take over. Unless, perhaps, he could do sleep exercises. Stimulate nightmares, maybe? He was certain there were options. Wait. No. There was something else he could do that would have been _much_ more effective. He just needed to take a little time, do some research. And put _his_ mongoose into play.

She hated how he called her Samara. _Hated_ it. Friends called her that. People she trusted called her that. This man was no friend, and he could not be trusted. Something lurking under his skin made her feel nauseated, and it was made worse every time he said it. Her vision blurred for a breath, catching Nora off guard, and something occurred to her. She had to get out, had to get her other half away from him. "I believe that will be all for today, Doctor. If you will excuse me, Will is waiting for Sam."

She maintained control long enough to stop by the receptionist's desk and get outside, fuming the entire time. This was someone Nora could not kill to protect her core. Not without making life a living hell for Sam.

Familiar darkness crept over her eyes as she walked up to Will's well-loved car. Her limbs grew numb and her mouth felt dry. Her grip on Sam's body was slipping quickly, moreso than it had before. Hastily she climbed in and slammed the door. If Will said anything, she did not understand it for the rushing in her ears. Breathing was getting difficult, and she couldn't hold her head up. "Give me a second," she murmured, unable to focus her attention anywhere.

All at once she was back inside Sam's head, a spectator once more. Never had it come on so fast and without warning. She wondered if her latest outing had changed something, knocked something loose in Samara's head. Nora hoped not. She wasn't ready to let go just yet.


	3. Sleepless in Wolf Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of fluff when neither Will nor Sam can sleep. Enjoy it while it lasts!

Rain poured outside, a steady rhythm that would have lulled anyone to sleep. Not Will, though. Another nightmare about Garrett Jacob Hobbs woke him covered in a cold sweat. At first it was pretty standard - an unfortunate use of the word. He once again took the place of the father and murdered Mrs. Hobbs, scared half to death at the prospect of being found out. He held the knife to Abigail's neck and panic drew his throat closed. He never wanted to kill his daughter, but he had to. He had to so she couldn't leave. He had to kill himself, too. So they would never be apart. In a swift motion his daughter's throat was slashed open and her body fell to the ground. This was not his design.

He was about to bring himself to the same, grisly fate, when he stopped. Someone was singing. At first he couldn't make it out, but as it grew louder it became something familiar. A lullaby. Then Samara came into view, morphed out of the obscuring darkness, her head split open like a coconut. Brain matter spilled out onto a white Sunday dress that left a pattern akin to butterflies. Her eyes were open, but unseeing. She was a thousand miles away, but dead before him. Her mouth was all that moved, the lilting tune haunting and beautiful and cold.

Again, for the fifth night in a row, Will woke up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, gasping for breath. The clock on his bedside table announced it was 12:14 in bright red, angry numbers. Thunder rumbled dully overhead. He took it all in as he tried to slow himself down, his heart, his breathing, his existence. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his damp face. It would be a while before he went back to sleep. He wondered if Hannibal was awake, too. Maybe woken up by the storm? He needed someone to help him clear his head.

He stumbled downstairs for something to drink, something strong, when he stopped short. A body was laying on his couch, shrouded in shadows, unmoving. He stared, equally still, and began to question who would have been in his house.

Bleary eyed and squinting in the darkness, Sam felt Will's presence before she saw him. He had been silent coming down the stairs, silent when he stopped, and silent now. A thick, heavy silence that seemed to suck everything into it and crushed it. She was afraid to break it, though she couldn't explain why. Something about noise suddenly seemed blasphemous, sinful. Regardless of her fear, she had to say something. She had no idea how long he had been standing there, and she worried something may have been wrong.

Her back burned as she propped herself up on her elbows, a familiar pain that bit deep into her bones, and she bared her teeth against it. It had been the source of her unrest, on and off, for years. Sleeping on the couch had made it worse, but Samara would eventually get around to seeing someone about it. Eventually being the key word. "Will?" she asked, shattering the all-consuming quiet.

The man inhaled sharply, not realizing he had been holding his breath, and tiptoed closer. "Sam?" Of course it was Sam. She still hadn't found her phone nor keys, hadn't been able to get into her apartment, and the locksmith didn't have an opening until tomorrow - today, actually. "What are you doing awake?"

A sheepish grin curled the edges of her lips. "I should be asking you the same." Sam uprighted herself with a grimace and made room for her friend, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders as a shawl.

"Nightmares," he admitted as he crossed the room, turning on a lamp on his way to the couch. He chuckled under his breath when he saw her in the light. Frizzy, blonde curls gathered in uneven bundles on her head, some hanging in her face. The collar of the borrowed shirt was stretched further than he remembered - or perhaps she was smaller than he thought, since he only ever saw her in baggy jackets and baseball caps these days - and revealed the soft olive skin of her shoulder. "You look like a mess," he teased as he sat.

"My back won't let up." She brushed back some of her hair with a hand. It did absolutely nothing to tame the unruly nest. Shoulders tensed as she did, and the memories of years past flashed against the back of her eyelids. She remembered the soaked rattan cane with unfortunate clarity, and the wet sound it made when it met her back. She remembered screaming, crying out in anguish, the first time. After that she knew better than to make a sound.

Will studied Sam, watched as her mind slowly drifted off to an obviously unpleasant place, and wondered if there was any form of light where she was. If the places and people that haunted her were just as grim as his. He knew some things, but not all. She was abused severely - that much was obvious even before she had told him - but he didn't know how. Just that it was a family affair, not the good-parent-bad-parent arrangement that could sometimes offer relief. There was no one to protect her.

He shifted on the couch, leaning down to scratch Winston behind the ears. "Anything I can do to help?"

Sam gave a dry laugh and shook her head. "How tired are you?"

"How tired am I?" Will leaned back, thinking about it with a hum. He considered the prospect of returning to bed, his sweat-soaked sheets and angry alarm clock. He had also considered going to Hannibal's house, something he had been doing with more and more frequency as of late, but the snow outside warned him against it. And to leave Sam alone in his house was probably rude. "Very. But I doubt I'll be going back to sleep any time soon. Why?"

The corners of her mouth twisted into a catlike smile. Childish excitement thrummed through her chest, and the woman scooted closer to Will. "Do you have any board games?"

He laughed, something that came to him easier than he expected. Her mood was contagious, even if he downplayed it to a degree. "No, but I have a deck of cards. Will that work?"

"That's just as good."

* * *

Hours melted away like snow under the sun, sitting across from each other on the floor, surrounded by contented dogs. The pair went through almost all the games in their arsenal: Old Maid, Gin Rummy, Poker, War, Speed, Go Fish. If one of them didn't know how to play, the other would teach. Sam made a joke about playing Strip Poker but ultimately said it would be an unfair game, "on the grounds that you are already losing," she said with a mischievous grin at his boxers. His face darkened with gentle warmth just before he laid his cards down with a full house. She cursed and threw her cards on the table, playfully upset.

When they ran out of two-player games, Sam came around to sit beside him and they took turns making moves in Solitaire. She hadn't intended to sit so close at first, worried her friend would find the proximity uncomfortable, but he didn't move away. Once his turn came, he reached across her to grab the Stack, his arm brushing hers on the way. Sam couldn't help but smile and take note. They hadn't spent time like this together in years, their college days. Back then he would have recoiled at the touch of another person. He had grown a lot. Suddenly she felt strange. Not guilty, but not quite ashamed. Last week Samara would have thought she had grown as well, but her recent spell caused her to doubt.

He was in the middle of deciding where to move a card when a sudden weight landed on his left shoulder, causing him to briefly stiffen. Will turned his head slightly to look and found Sam more peaceful than he thought he had ever seen her. Her face wasn't taught with stress, the skin around her eyes soft and relaxed. He smiled to himself and let her rest there. It was nice, this business of not feeling alone all the time.

Will hated socializing, hated how easy it was to be overwhelmed by other people, but tonight he was grateful for the company. Samara wasn't obtrusive with her presence, was okay with long periods of quiet with quips in between. She made it easy to forget that silence wasn't always a negative thing. Part of him wanted the morning to never come. Sam was going to go back to her apartment to get it unlocked, and his 'roommate' would go back to living on her own. And he would be alone again when the nightmares came.

He looked at the clock on the wall. 4:38 A.M. Sam had to meet the locksmith in three and a half hours, and he had to drive her. If he went to sleep now, that would have been enough to get through most of Saturday without feeling too tired. "Hey, Sam," he whispered, shaking his arm gently.

She stirred a little, frowning and burying her face in his shoulder. "I'm not sleeping," she groaned.

He laughed quietly to himself. "Come on. Let's get you to the couch." He shook her a little more roughly this time and roused her.

She lifted her head with a quick inhale, but her eyes were unfocused, lost somewhere in a dream. "I wasn't sleeping." Her voice was thick, words slow and somewhat slurred. "I was resting my eyes while waiting on your slow ass."

"Sam," he started, watching as she wiped the corner of her mouth. "You were practically snoring."

"What time is it?"

"A little past four thirty. Get some sleep. I'll wake you up in time to meet the locksmith." She nodded, eyes closed, and began to crawl on all fours to the couch. Will chuckled again. _'Not even awake enough to walk.'_ Once she was settled, Will stood up and turned off the light. She was snoring before had made it to the stairs. He slept a little easier after that, too. His bed didn't feel like such a bane, and his house didn't feel so lonely.


	4. What We Have Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finally makes it into her apartment and finds a letter from her father.
> 
> This one was harder to write. I will probably come back and tweak the emotional responses to be more accurate, but I think I got the gist of it right.

"Thanks again," Sam called to the lock smith, waving as he drove away. Her car was nowhere to be found, but at least she was able to get into her apartment. While spending a couple nights away from home was a nice reprieve, there was a certain mix of excitement and relief she felt about being able to sleep in her own bed again. She just hoped her keys and phone really were inside.

Will stood back a few feet, scrutinizing the place. There was a scent in the air that was unfortunately familiar. Not something he could truly _smell_ with his nose, but more of a sense that tingled in the back of his mind. Like something had happened here. While he wasn't too keen on learning if it was real or imagined, he couldn't knowingly walk away without checking. His conscience wouldn't let him. "I think I should go in first, Sam," he advised warily.

The woman laughed. "Why? It's just an empty apartment." She pushed open the door, expecting it to smell like home. To see the morning sun streaming in through the shades and a load of dishes in the sink that she would swear she was meaning to get to. To no longer feel like a burden on Will, who had a lot on his plate knowing Jack.

What she got was somewhat different.

Her apartment was _off_. Her couch was pulled out from where it normally sat against the wall. The smell of burning coffee permeated the air, even though Sam couldn't recall making any in the last week. She turned off the burner and set the coffee pot in the sink to cool before she washed it out. Had something gone amiss when she lost time? She searched her bedroom and the bathroom. Clothes were strewn about on the floor. A towel was folded over the curtain rod over the shower, despite her not having taken it from the bathroom closet.

Will entered the apartment slowly, examining everything from the misplaced couch to the smell of days-old coffee. His gut told him this wasn't what the place normally looked like. The air here was stale and anxious. _'No, not anxious. Hopeless.'_ He scanned what passed for a dining room, a small table with a single chair pulled away from it. A mug sat on the table, a lone pillar amongst what felt like a sea of despair. He didn't ouch it, opting to simply peer into it, and saw it was half empty and abandoned.

A piece of paper, obviously a note covered in uneven, haphazard scrawl, was tucked under the mug. Droplets of coffee had been spilled on the paper, staining it like depressed beige tears. "Sam," he called out, reading what he could of the letter.

She poked her head out from the bedroom door. "Yeah?"

"Who's Nora?" As he scanned the letter, it became obvious why it was left there, why the air felt so thick and weighed on his chest.

Samara frowned, emerging fully from the room, the search for her phone abandoned. Why would he have asked that? She had never mentioned Nora to him before, preferring to keep that memory from cropping up where she could. "Why?"

Will gestured to the paper on the table, certain she wouldn't want to read it. "It's addressed to her."

Her head swam a bit, suddenly feeling a pressure in her skull - less of a tangible feeling and more of an impression - like something wanted to crawl out. A rough shake of her head and the feeling seemed to pass, but she still felt an _otherness_ inside. As if she wasn't alone in her mind. It was familiar, but uncomfortable. Uncertain, Sam picked up the note and read it slowly. She recognized her father's drunken handwriting too well, but was he on something besides alcohol? His words didn't make sense.

_Nora,_

_Why won't you talk to your old man? Is it Samara? Did she turn you against me? You were the only light I had left. We thought we lost you when you died, but you came back. You were my little girl again, in your own way. After losing your mother and John, at least I still had you._

_I called your sister and asked to talk to you. I told her I was at her house and needed to speak to my daughter. She thought I meant her again, but you know. You were always our favorite. I wanted to see you again, to feel like I had something left to live for, but when I did talk to you, you turned me away._

_I know I wasn't always the best dad. Samara made it so difficult to love her, but I tried. But she wasn't you. She'll never be you, my baby girl. And without you, this old man has nothing left. I can't do it anymore. I hope I see you, the REAL you, again soon._

_Your Dad,_  
_Frankie_

Sam's heart hammered in her chest and she dropped the paper, brief memories flashing in her mind. She remembered the phone call, hazily, as if it were a dream. Why did he ask to speak with Nora? Her sister had died when they were still little kids. Seven or eight years old, maybe? Close to thirty years ago. He sounded desperate on the phone, pleading to speak with a dead child. After that, things were more flashes and impressions than solid memories. There was yelling involved. And confusion.

"It's a suicide note," she muttered under her breath. "My dad left my dead sister a suicide note." Sam looked at her friend, brows furrowed with a mixture of concern and confusion. "I'm sorry. I know it's your day off, but can you take me to his house?

"We should call the cops, first. Then we'll go over there." He couldn't be certain what she was thinking. As he dialed 911 and went through the 'We have a possible suicide,' report, he watched her face. Samara seemed to be fluctuating through a wide array of emotions. Her eyes were wide and glinting with scared tears, but her hands were loose, relieved. Her forehead revealed concern, but the tightness in her back and shoulders was rage. The more he stared, the more confusing she became to study. As if she was fighting to understand what she needed to feel.

* * *

Nora watched room her space inside her core's head, afraid, as they pulled up to the ramshackle one-story Sam had grown up in. Debris and detritus spilled off of the porch and littered the overgrown lawn as if in warning. "No hope lives here," it said. She had fought for control over Sam's body when they found the note, spent the 30 minute car ride to his house exerting all her energy, but her efforts were fruitless. Sam was too functional, too _awake_ , for Nora to get a foothold.

 _"Don't go in there,"_ she pleaded, knowing her host couldn't hear. Still, she had to try to make her stay awake. She had to protect her. _"Don't see what we have done."_

Will could feel the unease from all sides: the house before him looking much like the abandoned grave he believe it to be, and from Sam beside him, fidgeting and scare in her own skin. He wasn't sure it was going to be a good idea, but it was her father. How much of a say did he really have in the matter?

Cops were already on the scene, the lights on their patrol cars lights blinding even in the morning light. A perimeter of familiar yellow tape was being drawn, and Sam knew all she needed to know. Her father was dead. She tightened her fists in her lap, staring down at them. Her relationship with her father was a challenging one. When he was drunk, he was a rat bastard, too fond of his own sick punishments. Too consumed with being the king of his own castle. At least when he was sober he was calmer. Frank still had the shortest fuse Sam had ever known, but it was easier to manage, easier to avoid, when he hadn't been drinking.

And things had seemed to be getting better lately. He was calling more often, friendlier than he ever was when she lived with him, and she thought he had finally changed. Turned his life around or something. Why would he have killed himself when things seemed to be going so well? When she finally felt like she had a dad.

Sam jumped out of the car the moment it had stopped, rushing for the front door. Snow gathered in her boots, freezing her feet, but she didn't care. She had to see for herself. He couldn't have been dead. Not when things were going so well. Tears collected in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. No. He had to still be alive. Frank had to hanve changed his mind. Someone else was in the black bag being wheeled out. That was not going to be her father. She ducked under the yellow Police Line tape and kept running.

One of the cops held out an arm to stop her, catching her elbow. "You can't cross the tape, ma'am," he advised.

Sam tore her arm free, snapping at him. "This is my dad's house! I have to see!" Yes, she had to see for certain. This was not happening. She ran up to the gurney, to the EMT pushing him into the ambulance, with the cop trailing after her. "Is that my dad," she asked. Her breating was harder than she thought it should have been from trudging through the knee-deep snow. "Is that Frank Summers?"

The EMT peered at the body bag, then to her. "We believe so, ma'am. Are you next of kin?"

The tears came faster now and a sob wracked her body. "Yes," she cried. Samara covered her mouth and nose in an attempt to hide the snot tricking down her face, fingers growing numb with the cold. "I want to s-see him."

The man glanced between Sam and will who had appeared behind her. "I don't think that's a very good idea," he said in a hushed tone, concern knotting his eyebrows.

Sam's expression hardened. Something in the back of her head had been telling her to turn back, to run away, ever since she set foot in her house. But she had seen mangled corpses and bloated bodies before. It was part of her job. This wasn't some clinical examination. This death was personal. She wanted to see the face of the man that gave her hope to finally have a somewhat normal family and then took it all away. "I _need_ to see."

The medic took a deep breath and shrugged his shoulder. Technically it was her corpse since she was next of kin. He supposed if she was that determined, she had a right to see it.

When he unzipped the bag, Sam stared inside. It was her father, alright. Even though she hadn't seen him in months, and he had evidently lost an unhealthy amount of weight, she knew. His face was swollen with blood, the deep black-purple of an angry bruise. His eyes were closed, but she imagined for a moment that they were open. She imagined the desperation that must have been in them. The pain. In a short moment of anger Sam wondered if his pain in death was worse than what he had caused her. It quickly melted away, though, making way for grief.

Will put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her into him. She turned and buried her face in his chest, trembling with cold and disappointment and guilt. His hand found the back of her head and he patted her hair softly. "Sam," he whispered. "Let them do their jobs. We can wait behind the police line."

She nodded wordlessly and huddled under his arm as they returned to the car. She felt so much, so many different things, it was hard to make sense of it. Anger, relief, guilt, sadness, hopelessness. All at the same time. _'Maybe I should call Hannibal,'_ she thought as she crawled back into the car. _'He might know what is right to feel.'_


End file.
